Category Archives: My failing sanity

Nicole’s 10 Sexiest Men Alive List, or the post where I shamelessly objectify males

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The book fair is finished now, much to my relief.  By the end of it I pretty much hated children, a sentiment not unlike the one I used to get when I waitressed in university and would, after working a certain number of shifts in a row, hate the entire human race.  By the end of that certain number of shifts, I burned with internal fury.  You don’t care for those choices of salad dressing?  FUCK YOU.  You think that an appropriate way to get my attention is to pat me on the butt?  I SHALL NOW STAB YOU WITH YOUR STEAK KNIFE.
Not that I wanted to stab any children with a pencil in the shape of a paintbrush, mind you, but I was fairly tired of explaining that yes, $7 is indeed greater than $5, and no, $0.50 is not the same as $5.  We ended up raising significant funds for the library, and next to that, the fact that my sanity and nerves were shreds of their normal selves is nothing.  Right? 
Apparently People magazine came up with their “Sexiest Men Alive” list and though I haven’t read it or even know who is on the list, I decided – because all the cool kids are doing it – to make my own list!  At first I was going to top the list with my husband, because he really is one sexy guy.  Hoo boy, do I have a sexy husband.  But then I thought that would be boring and lame because who really wants to read a lusty letter to my shmoopie?  Also, saying that MY HUSBAND is the sexiest man would make me like one of those people who say that all they want for Christmas is world peace and an end to hunger.  Those people are assholes: a) we ALL want world peace and an end to hunger, and b) saying that makes the listener feel like a selfish idiot for saying that they are wishing for a Pandora bracelet.
A note about my own personal taste: I heard recently (from a source I cannot remember, if you know, can you help me out?) that if there were Hooters-style restaurants for women, they would contain men walking around in business suits flashing their perfect credit scores.  I heard that and thought YES.  You are speaking to me.  Another note: I have a shameless tendency to objectify actors.  I tend to be attracted to the character they are playing, well aware that they may be complete asses in real life.  I do not care about real life.  I care about how sexy they are playing a particular character.  I don’t want to get to know them, I just want to fantasize. 
Without further adieu, here is my list of Nicole’s 10 Sexiest Men Alive:
10. Jonathan Crombie
Who is that, you may ask?  He was my first crush; he played Gilbert on the CBC production of Anne of Green Gables.  I was ravenous for the Anne books, and when the CBC aired the television special, I very carefully taped it and watched the VHS recording many times after that.  I wish I still had that VHS – not that I have a machine that would allow me to view it – but it must have some awesome mid-eighties Canadian Tire commercials.  You can give like Santa, and save like Scrooge.  I actually only included him in solidary with Hannah who had Almanzo Wilder on her list, but it turns out he actually evolved into a very attractive man:
  

Hey Gilbert, I have (artificially) red hair.  Want to call me Carrots?

9. Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy

Mr. Darcy is – by far – the sexiest man in literature.  Possibly this is due to his massive wealth and aloofness, who knows.  All I know is I swoon when he can bear it no longer, he must tell Elizabeth how much he loves and admires her, and Colin Firth brings it to life, baby. 

8. Gabriel Byrne

When I went to see Little Women – in the theatre! – I was absolutely enamoured with Professor Bhaer.  He is bringing sexy back in an impoverished German professor kind of way.  Normally I don’t find poverty attractive, but when he sneaks Jo into the opera and then translates….rawr. 

7. Christian Bale

Again with the Little Women reference, Christian Bale is very saucy as Laurie.  And, although I’ve always wanted to be a Jo, the reality is I am probably a less-artistic Amy.  Also, Christian Bale is Batman.  BATMAN!  The superhero who is actually a highly trained martial artist, and a billionaire.  Sign me up.

6. Eric Dane

Doctor, doctor, give me the news.  Whenever I watch this with my husband, I say “Ooooh, Dr. Sloan.”, and my husband, who is a very confident man, says “Damn, he’s a good looking guy.”  Yes, he is.  Yes, he really is.  He is also much sexier with grey hair and a beard. 

5. Ralph Fiennes in The English Patient

Ralph Fiennes is so sexy he is explosive as Count de Almasy.  Remember when he gets all drunk and dances all intensely with Mrs. Clifton, or when they have sex in the closet?  It just doesn’t get hotter than that.  He would be horrible to have a relationship with, as I’ve discussed before, but who cares about that?  We don’t have the Sexiest Men Alive list to think about them taking out the garbage, now, do we? 

Look at him!  He has been walking.  For three days.

4. Val Kilmer as Ice

“That’s how he flies.  Cold as ice, no mistakes.”

He’s also pretty hot all oiled up while playing volleyball.

3. Hugh Jackman

I think Hugh Jackman is sexy in every role I have ever seen him in.  I wouldn’t mind seeing his Reel Steel, if you know what I mean.  But I think he is the best as Wolverine.  Or really, the guy who turns into Wolverine.  He’s a tough Northern Canadian guy who has claws coming out of his knuckles!  How sexy is that?

The lady will have two tickets to the gun show.

2. Ray Lewis

Let’s take a break from actors for a moment to focus on professional athletes.  RAY LEWIS.  His intensity and physical stature are breathtaking.  Can you imagine if this passion for football took place in other areas?  HOO BOY.

Now, anyone who has been reading my blog for any length of time should be able to guess my number one sexiest man alive (other than my husband).  Drum roll….
1. Jim Cuddy
That voice!  That talent!  “Oh, she loved the lines around his mouth.” 
She also loved the fact that he very patiently posed with the fan who did a frantic run-walk, new acquaintance in tow, to ask for a photo.  I’m not a stalker!  I swear!  But I lurrrrrve you.

Boring, Useless, Who-Gives-A-Shit Information

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Many, many years ago, before my mother-in-law discovered email and all the associated animated emoticons that could be utilized therein, she used to send me actual written letters, usually accompanied by a piece of knitting she had been doing – the knitted dishclothes I prefer, for example.  In one such letter she had written all about her daily doings for about four pages, then abruptly concluded with the line “Well, that’s enough boring, useless, who-gives-a-shit information for today.”  It’s something that still makes me smile, and I often mentally refer to certain things as such: boring, useless, who-gives-a-shit information. 

That is how I feel about reality television.  I never watch it, except for sporadic episodes of American Idol and, although I am loathe to admit it, The Bachelor.  I don’t watch much television but when I do it is what I like to think of as escapist television; comedies such as Parks and Recreation, for example, or Modern Family.  Serious television programs don’t interest me much unless they involve Sipowicz threatening to beat down a perp to give himself up or Dr. Sloan doing anything at all.  If Dr. Sloan took to the airwaves reading a copy of Today’s Parent, I would avidly watch it. 

As an aside, I’m quoted a few times in this month’s Today’s Parent, on the joys and pitfalls of stay-at-home parenting.  Also as an aside, the other day I mentioned that I was a stay at home mom, and received the huffy response “It must be nice to be able to afford such a luxury.”  I was  a bit taken aback by the resentful and bitter tone.  I never know how to respond to such.  It IS nice, actually.

Anyway, back to reality television.  I don’t watch it and I most certainly do not find it tempting to watch, especially if the program involves a) children, b) domestic chaos, or c) dysfunctional families.  I have my own children, I have access to my own domestic chaos, and if I want to see a dysfunctional family I will go to my next family reunion.  And so I’ve never watched the program that features the Duggar family and their very large brood, but I am aware that there is another bun in the oven, so to speak.  I’m aware of this somewhat against my will, since it is all over the news and, relatedly, all over Facebook.  In fact, someone posted this picture just the other day:

Oh, ha ha.  Good one.  Except for a few little things: a) a clown car involves all the clowns being in there at the same time, which is clearly not the case given the wide range of ages, and b) the more correct terminology would be the UTERUS, not the vagina.  Even if the children were all clustered in this poor woman’s body at the same time, they would not be stuck in her vagina.  They would be in her uterus.  But it does not matter, it is an incorrect comparison anyway. 
I really couldn’t care less how many children other people have – I maxed out on two but I’m well aware that everyone is different when it comes to ideal family sizes.  However, when I did hear that this woman has birthed nineteen (soon to be twenty) children, the first thing that came into my head was “Wow, her poor vagina!”  I mean, there are not enough Kegels in the world, if you know what I’m saying.  Which brings me to a funny story.
When I was pregnant with Mark, I worked on a natural gas trading floor in a group of men.  It was an open environment which meant that I often had someone standing behind me, peering at my computer screen.  Since I was pregnant, I had a bit of concern about the impending birth and the subsequent effect it would have on my delicate feminine essence, let’s say.  So I put “Kegel Exercises” into my scheduler and twice a day a little reminder would pop up on my screen, after which I would dutifully perform them.  One day a young male colleague and I were working together, and, predictably, my reminder popped up on the screen.  I clicked “DISMISS” quickly, but not quickly enough, as his face turned red and he suddenly needed to get something from his desk, right now.
I wonder if he could tell I was already doing them.

Knowing Me, Knowing You, The Time Change Edition

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With clock-like consistency, there are two times of the year that get me excessively agitated and stabby, and those times are the “Spring Forward” and “Fall Back” atrocities known as Daylight Saving-related time changes.  I may have mentioned this before.  I’m not going to bore you with the details, but I will say that, as I age, I myself seem to be more affected by this.  For example, I woke up at 3:30 this morning thinking that it was time to head over to the yoga studio.  I think my stomach is currently in danger of digesting itself, and it’s only 11:00.  My brain is a liquidy mess.  I can’t wait until I slip into a coma at 6:30 tonight – after it’s been dark for two hours, and I certainly can’t wait for the excitement of having two highly exhausted children at that time, when we will still need to finish our home reading and tidy up our rooms.  It’s going to be great!

Just pick a fucking time and stick with it, people.  Time change is an antiquated notion.  Let’s move on.

So as my brain liquifies and I sip my fourth cup of coffee, let’s play a game of Knowing Me Knowing You, shall we?  I picked up this meme from my very good non-lesbian-life-partner-she’s-just-a-friend Allison over at Bibliomama.  Play along – it’s fun!

1. What keeps you up late at night?
Oh, ha ha, this is such a funny question!  Nothing.  I have trouble falling asleep very rarely, and when I do it’s due to something ridiculously stupid like the guy who came to one School Council/ Parent Association meeting and raved about busing fees and the school naturalization area, but who actually did not want any involvement with the Parent Association because he is way “too busy”.  That guy irritated me so much I stayed awake until AFTER TEN O’CLOCK.  Travesty.  

2. Do you collect anything?
I have a lot of books, but I’m not sure I would say I collect them.  Clothes?  Yoga wear?  Boots?  At last count I have 10 pairs of black boots, and here is a (partial) look inside my closet:

My yoga clothes – sadly, I am doing laundry right now and so this is much neater and less crammed than usual.  Also note: I have a cowboy hat on my top shelf.  This is what living in Calgary does to you, people.

My sweater “drawer”.

My “drawer” dedicated to t-shirts of the long and short sleeved variety.

So I’m not sure if I can say I have a “collection”, but my husband would say that I have issues with clothing.  Hey, you can never have enough black tops and sweaters, am I right?

3. Are you addicted to Angry Birds?
I barely know what Angry Birds IS.  I have a flip phone.  I don’t even have voice mail on it.

4. What’s your idea of a perfect evening?
At the risk of sounding VERY lame, I love spending the evening on the couch, drinking wine and eating something made with cheese, and watching reruns of NYPD Blue.  Or Jeopardy.  I am so much fun to live with!

5. Are you looking forward to winter?
I live in Calgary.  It’s winter right now.  NO.  I like to be warm.  But at least the winter gives me an excuse to procure more black sweaters and boots. 

Dental Scaling or Pelvic Exam? Survey says…

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Last week I was at the dentist for a checkup and for scaling.  The word “scaling” gives me the chills.  I conducted a brief and informal survey among girlfriends, regarding which they would rather have: dental scaling or a pelvic exam.  The results were approximately 75/25 in favour of pelvic exams.  Of course, this isn’t a scientifically accurate survey.  The sample size was small and not representative of the total population, but I strongly agreed with the majority here.  I would much, much rather endure the awkwardness of the bright lights and scootching my bottom down a little, and even the weird retractor thing, than have my teeth scaled. 

People have a tendency to quote statistics, with absolute certainty, in order to prove a point.  I could say, forcefully, that 75% of women prefer pelvic exams to dental scaling, but I would be incorrect.  A survey of less than twenty of my girlfriends does not constitute an unbiased, random sampling, and the sample size is much less than what is considered statistically significant.  This is one of my all-time pet peeves: the quoting of inaccurate statistics.  Wow, I’m really a nerd.  It’s like I’m one step away from pulling out my mechanical pencil and pocket calculator in order to do my own calculations.  Show me the data behind your statistics.

Where was I?  Oh yes, the dentist.  I dread it every time.  My mouth resembles a crime scene afterwards, and while I realize that flossing more regularly would help matters, I still believe strongly that putting a sharp metal object forcefully against soft tissue is going to result in bleeding no matter what.  My real issue is that I’m a people pleaser when it comes to my hygienist, and I end up being less than truthful when it comes to my flossing habits.  There is a scene that I relate to in my friend Michal’s short film Arithmetic, where Annie is reclined in the dentist chair, blood spattered all over her paper bib, and the caption is something along the lines of “There are two people Annie lies to: the dentist and her mother.”  I’m like that.  Not that I lie to my mother.  (Hi Mom, if you’re reading this!).  Hey, did I mention I was an extra in that film?  I did?  Oh.

By the way, I KNOW I have to floss more, but knowing is not the same thing as doing, as anyone can tell you who has found themselves with a mysteriously empty bag of potato chips, a bloated stomach, and crumbs all over their shirt.

I also had to take the dog to the vet for a checkup and vaccinations.  Canine vaccinations are the only type of vaccinations I will ever mention on this blog.  Have you ever noticed that there is very little debate over getting your dog vaccinated?  Or maybe there is debate and I just haven’t noticed.  (Note: I don’t want to know.)  Anyway, I took the dog to the vet and – some of you may remember his weight struggles (he’s fat) – he lost weight!  He lost five pounds which is almost ten percent of his body weight!  I was so happy, and I expected great praise and accolades, which did not materialize.  Yes, the vet said, it’s good that he’s lost weight but he should really loose a couple more pounds.  I was completely crestfallen.  Where are my accolades?  The vet, furthermore, informed me that Barkley needs to have MORE dental chews (apparently he and I have plaque in common) but that I should deduct the number of calories from his dental chews from his total daily caloric intake.

I agreed with the vet, but internally I thought no fucking way.  There is no way I am going to start doing a calorie count for my fucking dog.  “It’s easy!” the vet said, giving Barkley a small treat, “These are ten calories each.  Just deduct that from his food.”  I spend enough time calculating my own calories, I do not need to worry about my dog’s intake.  The thought of dividing my dog’s food into little ten calorie portions in order to deduct that amount from his food total makes my head spin and, quite frankly, makes me fear for society.  Is this where we are going, people?  Are we going to expand our obsession with weight loss to include our furry friends?  Because I do not want to go there.  

New Haircut (Regrets, I’ve had a few)

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Friday night I had some girlfriends over to watch The Breakfast Club and eat that dinner beloved by women everywhere: the dinner made up of appetizers.  In related news, I think I may have overdosed on cheese products.  The Breakfast Club is one of my all-time favourite movies, but when we watched it this time, we all started to wonder about our own children and their upcoming teenage years.  That was a little unnerving.  Will my children be a part of the physics club and hide flare guns in their lockers due to anxiety about an F in shop class?  Do they even offer shop class anymore?  I’m pretty sure they won’t be on the wrestling team and taping other kids’ butt cheeks together, but I suppose you never know.

The next day I had a hair appointment and, despite all common sense, advice from friends, and knowledge about myself and my well-authenticated fear of change, I ended up with 2 1/2 inches less hair.  It started innocently enough; I wanted to refresh my colour as it had faded to a rather unattractive orange, and I had a discussion with my hair therapist (that IS her job title) about my fears of turning into Mullet Lady.  Well, she said, why don’t we give it a little cut then?  Nothing drastic.  Remember Starsky and Hutch?  DO IT. 

It’s HARD to take pictures of yourself.  Or, it’s hard for me. 
Regrets, I’ve had a few.  So as I was practicing non-attachment – it’s only hair, it grows, in a month it won’t be falling out of my teeny tiny bun – I attended a family dinner at my parents’ house.  Now, here is a bit of background information for those of you who don’t already know this.  Back in January I decided to give up my nightly glass of wine.  I now only partake in wine consumption on evenings that I do not have to get up early for yoga the next day; in other words, Friday and Saturday evenings only.  (I do practice on Sunday mornings, but not until 9:00, and there is only so much one can expect from oneself.)  Yesterday, my mother asked if I wouldn’t like a glass of wine, and when I declined, she looked at me incredulously and asked if I was pregnant.  Pregnant!  My sister-in-law suggested that since I wasn’t huddled in a corner in the fetal position and sobbing, I probably WASN’T pregnant.  She knows me well.
It did remind me of the pregnancy scare I had a few years back.  My kids were one and two years old.  I hadn’t had my period in months.  I had taken a number of pregnancy tests; they were all negative.  Still, it’s hard to ignore a symptom like not having your period for months.  So one day I was grocery shopping with the two little guys in the giant Superstore cart, and I picked up yet another home pregnancy test.  The most accurate home pregnancy test! the box claimed.  I wrangled my kids into their five-point car seats, I started to drive home, and it hit me: what if I took the test and it was positive?  What then?  I would have to use the back row of the minivan.  The kids would have to share a room.  I would lose all remaining vestiges of my sanity.  I already had a full double stroller, what would I do with a third child?  I could barely get out of the house with two children, how would I manage with three?  I had a complete panic attack and pulled the car over, put my head down on the steering wheel, and sobbed. 
I got my period the next day.  I also had validation that two was the perfect number for me.

Save the drama for your mama.

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I try to write quality posts and occasionally I try to write beautiful posts and yesterday I checked my statistics to see why, specifically, people visit this blog.  Is it my views on parenting, on mindful living, on good karma and kindness?

Here are some of the popular search terms that have been used to find my blog:

1) Cougar moms and velour tracksuits.
2) 16 year old girls with whale tails.
3) Boys stripping girls in their house. *although this has also been spelled “boyz striping girls in there house”, but that kind of spelling gives me squidgies.*
4) Boy and fack girl in the house.
5) Asam Sandler singing into ex-girlfriends intercom  *That is how it is spelled.  I altered neither the spelling nor the punctuation, despite my squidgies.*

All of which is to say, I must have a lot of disappointed blog visitors.  Perhaps I should talk more about my velour tracksuits.

The past few days has seen a lot of sadness and difficulties for various friends and family, the details of which I am not going to go into, but I seem to be coping by baking things.  There are worse coping mechanisms, I suppose (like drinking, which I am doing right this second).  Tomorrow we are having a birthday party for Jake and 13 little friends, and so I have been a cupcake baking machine.  We have two guests coming who are unable to eat wheat and/or gluten, and so I made a batch of gluten free cupcakes.  I was a bit concerned as to how they would turn out; I read some recipes in Chatelaine magazine (don’t judge, I AM a suburban Canadian mother) but I became completely overwhelmed by the sheer number of different flours and ingredients required.  My dearest friend, who has a daughter with Celiac disease, suggested Pamela’s Products, and I have to say, the result was not bad at all.  The cupcakes were only one inch high but they were tasty.  The package suggested adding an extra egg for extra light cupcakes, and I will say this: if you need to make gluten free cupcakes and there is an option to make them “extra light”, ADD THE EGG.  I can’t imagine how dense the result would be if you, as the package suggested, added less water for a more dense cake. 

So it’s the birthday party tomorrow and I am sure I will have much to say about that, but for now, I think I might go sample another cupcake and refill my wineglass.  I hope your weekend is going well, my lovelies.

It makes me just feel like crying, baby, ’cause baby, something beautiful’s dying.

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“There’s a new Tim Hortons commercial that’s going to make you cry,” my husband called from the living room.  “I’ve already seen it AND cried this morning.”  I replied.  Oh, Tim Hortons and their tear-jerking commercials.  Years after it first aired, my husband can still say, stiffly, “I come watch” and I will tear up. 

But it’s not just Tim Hortons’ commercials.  I’m an emotional wreck these days.  In other words, I should not have, in hindsight, spent the afternoon of Jake’s sixth birthday watching videos of him and his brother from when they were small.  What was I thinking?  I wasn’t, clearly.  I’m suffering from some kind of pre-empty-nest syndrome.  Last night there was a barbeque at the school and when a friend asked if I was going, I replied that no, I was just going to stay home and be sad.

What a pill.  Fortunately, Top Gun was on TV and, like a moth to a flame, I found myself watching it.  It’s not even a guilty pleasure.  It’s just a pleasure.  They don’t make movies like that anymore.  I have been watching it for twenty-five years and it just never gets old.  “The plaque for the alternates is down the hall in the ladies’ room.”  STILL FUNNY.  It makes me want to go visit a bar near an air force base just to see if the pickup lines “I’m a pilot.  Actually, a naval aviator.” would still be used.  Of course, I’m not sure I fit the demographic that those delivering the pickup lines would be looking for, but one could hope.  Never have I been serenaded by a group of naval aviators singing “You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling” but it could totally happen. 

There has always been much talk about the glossy, oiled-up, homoerotic volleyball scene (“Playing…playing with the boys!”) and every time I see that movie I rewind that scene at least three times.  Iceman…because that’s the way he flies, ice cold with no mistakes.  Whew!  I saw that movie in my formative years and I swear it set me up for a lifelong enjoyment of the bad boy/asshole.  No soft and sensitive guy for me, it seems, which is probably a good thing.  I think I have enough softness and sensitivity to go around.  Of course, after watching the movie I felt like pounding away on my piano and yelling to my husband “Hey you big stud!  Take me to bed or lose me forever!”  So maybe I’m not totally soft and sensitive.

The first time I saw Top Gun it was in an ice-cold theatre on a hot summer night in Estevan, Saskatchewan.  Eleven-year-old me was fascinated by it.  I longed for a life of adventure, a life beyond my young and boring existence.  Now I’m thirty-six, with my happy and comfortable life that I love, my life which is largely devoid of adventure.  But when that opening music plays, I long to roll down the windows of the minivan and drive really fast down the highway.  The highway to the danger zone.